“It’s a lonely washing that has no man’s shirt in it, Eileen, don’t you forget it.” That’s what my mother, quoting her mother, told me, and told me, and told me, as we moved from Tenafly to Teaneck to Trenton, and continued after I turned twelve and we went west, landing in four towns in eastern Pennsylvania, before finding a real home in Harrisburg. Harrisburg: high school, hickeys, and handsome Henry.

But now I am thirty and settled, loving and loved, in Brooklyn, across the bridge from Jersey. We do our laundry, Lorena and I, and laugh about that line.

Tony Press is fortunate. He’d be thrilled if you purchased his story collection, Crossing the Lines (Big Table), from an indy bookstore. Or even from that other place.

Alas, there is no “bridge” that spans between Brooklyn, where I grew up, and New Jersey. The stately Verrazano spans The Narrows and empties into Staten Island, while 3 others go over the East River to Manhattan, the Gil Hodges (aka: Marine Parkway) spans Jamaica Bay to Rockaway (Queens), or the Koscuiszko over Newtown Creek (Queens).

But very nice piece, nonetheless. Just don’t ask Tony for driving directions around NYC. 🙂